Dying to Live
by HaraKumiko
Summary: An AU where everything is backwards - Hanna hates the world,  ...  is an emotional slave, and Conrad just isn't quite right in the head. And that's just scratching the surface. Rated for language, blood, and violence; no planned pairings.


**A/N:** Two AUs at once? ..._challenge accepted_.

So, Dying to Live came out of various conversations with the HiNaBN Skype group, where we picked out how each character would be if their personality was reversed. And such, there's a world-weary Hanna, an overemotional {...}, and a very creepy/insane Conrad, along with other things that are just unnatural and wrong.

* * *

I thought I'd made a mistake. But, sure enough, the address on the door said "306" - it had taken me a minute to realize this, as the six had nearly fallen off and was hanging upside down, grasping onto the nail like a man hanging onto a cliff for dear life.

Still, I stood, staring at the card in my hand as if I expected the words to jump off and laugh in my face: "We were just kidding! It's on the other side of town!"

The name read "Hanna Falk Cross"; on the back, it proclaimed "Paranormal Investigator!" With a sigh, the image of a long-faced woman yelling at me flashed across my eyes, and I shuddered before I brought up the nerve to raise my hand, curl it into a fist, and rap my knuckles against the wood just above the fallen six.

On the other side of the door, I heard the clattering of junk hitting the floor and a quiet "Fuck!" followed by: "Just a second!" There was more clattering and thudding, and I lost my nerve and turned to go back the way I had come from. But before I could do it, the door opened a crack, and Hanna Falk Cross peered out at me. "...'lo?"

The disbelieving mutter of "Holy shit!" I received after Hanna got a good look at me did little to stir me from dull shock. For Hanna Falk Cross was a boy.

He had darkish red hair, messy like it had never seen a comb in its life, and an unfortunate combination of curls and waves. His skin was pale, from what I could tell was from a lifetime of dark solitude, tired lines popping up subtly under his incredible blue eyes, which were themselves under thickly framed glasses. "_Mister_ Cross?" I asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow.  
He stared at me and, after regaining his composure and looking both ways down the hall, opened his door wider, gesturing with a nod of his head: "Get in." Confused, I obeyed, watching as he closed the door and turned to me, crossing his arms and talking bluntly. "Look, I'm not a necromancer, so if that's what you want, you can go -"

"N-no," I cut him off. "That's... not why I'm here." Seeing his demeanor warm slightly, I continued. "I've just spent a lot of time thinking, and now... now I really don't know where else to go. And, uh..." I held out his card, watching him take it and study it absently. "It _does_ say you're a paranormal investigator..."  
Hanna didn't look up as he turned the card over, as if making sure it was legitimate. "Where did you even get this?"  
Out of instinct, I tried to call up memories. However, the result stayed the same as any other time I'd attempted it. "I forgot." He did look up then, raising an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, I asked the question I had come to ask all along. "Are you... are you hiring, then?"

"...Hi... huh?" Hanna's expression faded from indifference to one of true surprise. "You came here to ask for a _job_?"  
I tugged at my blue-and-white striped scarf. "Uh, yes."  
He was silent for a minute, just quietly staring at me. I almost nearly told him to forget it, and had taken a step toward the door when he sighed and said, "Sure. Gotta warn you, I'm pretty much the worst investigator in the city."  
I stopped, and then relaxed slightly. "Why would you say that?"  
He waved a hand. "I'll tell ya after the tour. This is the living slash dining room, and the kitchen's over there." He pointed to quite possibly the smallest kitchen I'd ever seen, consisting only of a stove, one counter, a worn-down refrigerator, and a large cabinet. I only got to really see it all for a grand minute before I realized that Hanna had continued forward into a short hallway, and I followed.

He stepped into another room and made a sweeping gesture. "This is the office and bedroom. Bathroom's across the way. And that's it."  
"That's it?" I echoed, eyes scanning the worn mattress on the floor and the tiniest window to ever exist. Papers were scattered across the floor and on the walls, where they were nailed next to a poster of Dick Tracey and a calendar that was a few days out of date, and a laptop was poking out through the clutter. There were no desks or chairs.  
"Yep. This is what I get for 500 bucks a month." He shrugged, kicking away a pile of clothes. "Anyways. What'd you ask before? Why I'm the worst? That's 'cos no one really looks twice at investigators, and I usually screw up at some point. I've only had two or three actually successful cases."  
I was stunned. That was not a good number. "Why do you do it, then?"  
A moment of silence, and Hanna turned his eyes to me. And they looked dead. "Someone has to." Unable to keep my gaze, he started picking up bits of paper to stack away in the corner. "Anyways. What's your name?"

The dreaded question. I closed my eyes and carefully cupped my hands around a moth that had fluttered towards me. "I... think it started with a 'D'. Or, maybe an 'S'...?"  
"Those... aren't very similar."  
Eyes still closed, I felt the moth's little wings flutter against my palms. "I guess."  
"No, like, they aren't even interchangeable. Not knowing if a person said 'dick' or 'sick' could _really_ screw up a conversation."

That was the closest thing to a joke I had heard since I'd stepped foot through the door. Opening my eyes and my hands, I watched the moth breeze away into freedom. "You can call me whatever you want."  
Hanna was quiet. "...okay. How about I just try random names until one sticks with you? Like... Othello?"  
I just stared at him.  
"Larry?"  
"No." Anything by 'Larry', please.  
"Zander? Zs are kinda cool."  
I just shrugged, pulling off my scarf and tossing it on the floor next to the mattress.  
"Tough crowd," Hanna said, scratching the back of his neck.

A knock on the door startled the both of us, and a voice called out: "Falk? You in there? Ya got someone lookin' for ya."  
"Mrs. Blaney," Hanna said, surprised, and then quickly elaborated: "My landlady."  
"Falk?" I asked as we both made our way out into the main room.  
"You read the card," he replied, "it's on there. My middle name. Looks like you're gonna meet Mrs. Blaney early." Before I could ask, he pulled open the door.  
Mrs. Blaney was an an older woman, a cigarette dangling from her too made-up lips that were curved in a smile. Long, messy blond hair framed a face lined with age, and I tried not to cringe at her bra-less attire. In her hand was red fabric, dangling by a measly thread from the shirt of a young man who was visibly trying to keep from touching her. "Evenin'," she said pleasantly, in a voice that I definitely hadn't expected her to have.  
"Uh, hey. Who's...?" Hanna gestured to the younger man.  
She shrugged, releasing the shirt remains and not even flinching as her companion took a step away. "I 'unno. But if ya need me, I'll be next door."

The younger man watched her leave, lifting his hand to wave. "I guess what they say is true; don't judge a book by its cover," he mused, his voice marked in a light British accent. "Mr. Cross, I presume?"  
"Yeah, that's me. Come on in."

Little did we know that, just with those three little words, life - and undeath, I suppose - were changed forever.


End file.
